


silhouette, step into the streetlight

by caughtinanocean



Category: Captain America, Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Affectionate Insults, Blow Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, M/M, Past Prostitution, Porn, Protectiveness, Psychological Trauma, Sex, broken boys in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 17:22:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caughtinanocean/pseuds/caughtinanocean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Between the two of them, Bucky's not the only one with ghosts. </p><p>
  <i>All Bucky can think, holding on to Steve the way he's always done, in one way or another, the ugly truth of <i>something</i> creeping into his awareness, is 'who the fuck dared not love him?'</i>
</p><p>Written for <a href="http://stevebucky-fest.dreamwidth.org/307.html?thread=3379#cmt3379">this prompt</a> at the <a href="http://stevebucky-fest.dreamwidth.org/">Steve/Bucky fest</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	silhouette, step into the streetlight

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you like it, anonymous prompter! Title from "Neon Dove" by Gardens & Villa. Thanks very much to Gaby for keeping me from plunging off the brink and into madness.

In Bucky's head, there's howling wind. That doesn't stop with the first cautious press of his lips against Steve's, or with the way Steve's face lights up after. It doesn't stop when they spend that first night content to be kissing, or when he falls asleep with Steve's arms around him and Steve's face pressed into the crook of his neck like he's trying to burn the feeling of Bucky into his skin.

It doesn't stop, but Steve's a steady presence by his side in the night, and in the day, and even when he isn't there, and that fact makes everything brighter, like Bucky's got a fire to warm himself through it.

–

The first time Bucky shoves Steve against a wall, falls to his knees, and tells Steve he's been dreaming of doing this for _years_ , Steve looks surprised. The surprised look does not fade when Bucky undoes his pants, hands unsteady with how bad he wants it, wants Steve's dick in his mouth, which he is running, an unending litany of obscene things spilling from his lips until the moment he sucks Steve's cock down, because he needs this like air.

The sounds that Steve makes, little gasps that he tries and fails to keep quiet, they sounds surprised, too.

–

Steve kisses him on the lips, lays him out on the bed with sweetness and careful restraint, and then returns the favor with a skill and clinical precision that leaves Bucky incoherent and babbling, a stream of 'Yes, _God_ , Steve, please,' and maybe, “I love you,” but Bucky's not sure of anything except for the clever mouth on his cock, and the overwhelming, white hot pleasure.

“It's okay,” Steve says, after. “Everyone loves the guy who's got their dick in his mouth.” The levity is forced, and Bucky knows him, knows the single, bright speck of goodness in his own ugly life. The meaning of Steve's words hollows him out.

He pulls Steve in, fierce and close. “You're an idiot,” Bucky says, before kissing him. “You're an idiot, and I love you, so fucking much. No mouth on my dick. Just us. I love you.”

Steve looks just as surprised as Bucky feels when Steve tells him, “And I love you.” Except Bucky's lucky Steve lets him into his life—has ever let him into his life—let alone his heart. And Steve—kind, infuriating, noble, perfect Steve—can have no reason.

“Good,” Bucky says, pressing a kiss against Steve's temple, and then his jaw, and then his mouth. “'Cause we're gonna cuddle like a couple of saps, now.”

All Bucky can think, holding on to Steve the way he's always done, in one way or another, the ugly truth of _something_ creeping into his awareness, is 'who the fuck dared not love him?'

–

Steve drags them to the clinic the morning after, to get tested, and it's ridiculous, because they've both got something extra running through their veins. The serum makes venereal diseases—sexually transmitted infections, they're called now, the helpful brochures remind Bucky—impossible, and Bucky's reasonably sure that whatever he's got does the same.

He almost feels insulted, but then Steve tells him, “Trust me, it isn't you,” with this dark look in his eyes, and Bucky's hurt feelings evaporate. They're burned away by concern, tinged with the sharp tang of anger, because someone, somewhere, made Steve—the brightest being in Bucky's world and any other—feel tarnished.

Someone made Steve feel dirty, and it isn't okay.

(The test results, predictably, are pristine).

–

Steve holds Bucky in his arms at night with a desperation that's more familiar to Bucky than most things, than everything but Steve.

–

Steve kisses like he is drowning.

–

Steve wakes up from nightmares, sometimes, and lays quietly by Bucky's side, trying not to wake him. Bucky only knows because he's already doing the same.

–

When Steve was a slip of a thing, too much bravery crammed into that slight body, too much stubborn determination—the most infuriating human Bucky had ever met, and also the best—Bucky would have done anything to protect him.

The body changed, but everything else stayed the same.

Bucky thinks, long, hard, and often, about all the years that he wasn't there to protect Steve.

–

They're not sure which teams to root for anymore, but baseball still feels like saving up to sit together in the nosebleed seats, splitting a hot dog and smiling too bright. It still feels like huddling around a tiny, tinny radio in a kitchen so small there was no option but to press together, and listening to Brooklyn win.

Except these days, they're on a couch worth more than that old apartment, and the game's on a screen that takes up damn near half the wall—the best view they've ever had.

“It's a damn shame about the Dodgers,” Bucky says, for what is probably the thousandth time.

Steve just shakes his head and smiles. “It would have been nice, to see them play like this. Before they were traitors. Sometimes, I think we should start rooting on the Giants just to spite them.”

Anyone else would have told Bucky to shut up about the Dodgers leaving already, and the way that Steve indulges him makes Bucky want to kiss Steve on the mouth, so that's what he does. He kisses Steve, and since he's already in Steve's space, he curls against Steve's side, and arranges Steve's arm around his shoulder. If cuddling up on the couch while watching baseball makes Bucky a sap, so be it. He's more than capable of defending his fearsome reputation.

Steve stiffens a bit, and a surprised look flashes across his face before he catches himself. It's damn near enough to break Bucky's heart.

Bucky thinks about the way Steve got him off, perhaps an hour before—the ease, the practiced skill of it. It's not the touching that's the problem; it's any kind of tenderness. Bucky wants to find the person who did this, who dared fuck Steve and not love him, who dared treat him with anything less than the goddamn care he deserves—find them, and put to good use every vicious skill he ever learned from the Russians and the Americans both.

“We should go to a game, sometime,” Bucky says, forcing away the vivid, pleasureful images of righteously-spilled blood. “A date.”

Steve laughs. “A date? You wanna court me, Buck?”

“Nah, I'd say the courting portion of the program's done. Wanna show you off.”

Steve just shakes his head, still laughing.

“Trust me, if you were in my position, you'd want to do the same.”

Steve kisses him, then, sweet and sudden. “Trust me, I do.”

–

They go to a game—the Mets. Bucky buys the tickets—he's tempted to get the nosebleed seats they've always sat in, for old time's sake, but they've got money now; there's no reason to settle. Steve insists on buying hot dogs and beers, and ignores all of Bucky's protests that he's the one taking Steve out, and Steve can pay next time.

Bucky holds Steve's hand the whole time, just because he can, only releasing it when it's absolutely necessary to stand up and cheer. He does it because he can and because once upon a time, he couldn't, and because he wants to. He does it because Steve's eyes light up each time that Bucky grabs his hand again after letting him go.

Later, back home, Steve doesn't seem quite so shocked when Bucky kisses down the (magnificent, muscled, perfect) plane of his chest and his stomach (all taut abs and sensitive skin) to suck Steve's cock (for the description of which adjectives fail him) into his mouth.

When Steve is done, Bucky pulls off, wipes his mouth, and says, “You pick next date.”

Steve manhandles Bucky back up the bed and pulls him close, kissing him before he wraps a clever hand around Bucky's dick. “No arguments here.”

Bucky thinks—or rather, he tries to, because the place he's at, thoughts don't come easy—that things are looking better.

–

Steve takes him out to a rock club, and it should be a nightmare—the place is dark, crowded, the air damp with sweat; the music is not the familiar sound of their time, his and Steve's. He doesn't always have an unobstructed eye-line of the door. Strangers jostle him. On bad days, even Steve's welcome and familiar touch is enough to send him reeling.

By all rights, Bucky should be outside within fifteen minutes, just breathing, Steve hovering next to him with that furrow in his brow.

Instead, the music is the best kind of loud, the drinks are cheap, and camaraderie overflows, but the greatest thing of all, just like always, is Steve, who wraps his arm around Bucky to keep from being separated in the crowd, and beams like he's proud to be seen with Bucky by his side—Steve, who's showing Bucky which bits of this century he likes best, one pretty moment at a time.

The music speeds up, and grows in intensity, and the audience dissolves into a swirling vortex of colliding bodies. Steve lets go of Bucky, then. They surge with the crowd, separate, but together. It should be awful, terrifying, but instead it makes Bucky feel alive.

He hauls Steve in for a kiss amid the chaos, and drowns in the ensuing smile.

–

Bucky starts ripping off clothes the moment they walk through the door.

It's not because they smell of stale sweat, and not even because most of that sweat belongs to other people. Bucky feels too hot in his skin, and too close to Steve, and he should be exhausted, but instead, he's all giddy energy, radiating from his fingertips and from his pores.

Steve smiles when Bucky undoes his jeans with shaking hands. His eyes sparkle. “So I guess this means you liked the show?”

“It's been _two days_ since the last time I got you outta your clothes,” Bucky tells him, pressing kisses into Steve's skin, tasting the salt of his sweat. “And yeah, that was amazing. You're amazing.”

Steve reels him in for a proper kiss. “I'm glad you liked it. Shower first.” Bucky pouts until Steve adds “I meant together.”

“I loved it,” Bucky says. “I love you.” He lets Steve lead him by the hand into the bathroom, and steps after him into cool water.

Steve kisses him under the spray. “Love you,” he says, their mouths still so close that Bucky feels like he could swallow the words. Nothing has ever sounded quite so much like absolution.

They make out in the shower for a while, until Bucky can't take it a moment longer. He feels as though he's been hard for years. “We're clean enough,” he says, turning off the water and dragging Steve out.

Steve looks at him, besotted, like he means it every time he says those perfect, impossible words, and then grabs a towel off the rack and dries Bucky off. It's both the sweetest moment, and terribly, achingly hot, Steve's hands all over him through the plush terrycloth. Bucky endeavors to return the favor, even though touching Steve's skin with obstruction feels like it might drive him insane.

Bucky can feel his pulse thrumming in his fingers as he pulls Steve towards the bedroom, pausing to kiss or to touch every several steps. Steve kisses down his throat, and over his collarbone, to the place where scars collide with metal, and Bucky is undone.

He's lost track of the number of times that they've made each other come, but there are some things they still haven't done, some steps not taken. Steve never initiates, and Bucky's never known how to ask, but right now, he wants it too badly to let self-doubt stand in the way.

Bucky breaks away to grab the lube from the nightstand. “I want you to fuck me,” he says, breath catching on the words.

Steve goes stiff, lust and joy drained all away for a moment, until he composes himself to say, “I won't hurt you. You can do it to me.” He walks over to the bed, and lays on his back. “Is this okay, or do you want me on my stomach?”

Bucky's lust-soaked brain short-circuits at the sight of Steve with his legs spread, but he still senses the wrong in Steve's tone. Steve gives him a come-hither look that banishes all doubts, and Bucky joins him on the bed and kisses him on the mouth.

Steve's hand is on the small of Bucky's back, and he's kissing back. Bucky shoves a hand between them to grope at Steve's hardening cock, and he groans at the touch. All seems well. The earlier stagger forgotten, Bucky goes for the lube.

He runs a hand up the inside of Steve's thigh, and Steve tenses—the smallest motion—and that is what shakes Bucky from his haze. He knows Steve like he's never known anyone or anything else, and Steve flinches from nothing.

Bucky pulls away.

Steve gives him a puzzled look, and Bucky wipes his hand on the sheets, gathering his words. The thoughts that race through his head are a litany of worsts. “Who did this, Steve?” he finally asks.

Steve's expression flickers, but does not change. He reaches for Bucky's wrist, and makes to pull him back down. “I don't know what you mean, Buck.”

Resisting, Bucky says, “Tell me who made you think this was supposed to hurt.” He takes Steve's hand off his wrist and holds it. “I don't care who it is. I'll kill them.”

Steve rolls his eyes. His face is the picture of honesty. Bucky knows he's going to lie before he speaks. “There's no one to kill, Bucky. It's just been a while for me, okay?” He squeezes Bucky's hand. “Get over here, soldier.”

“I hate it when you lie to me,” Bucky says. He knows it's a low blow, but this feels important enough to warrant a dirty fight. Steve always has been.

Steve looks up at him, all pretense of wellness stripped away to reveal the pain and the guilt and the turmoil that was lurking underneath. “It wasn't all a lie,” he says, “there really isn't anyone to kill. They're most likely long dead.”

Bucky's throat goes dry. “They?”

“I'm telling you.” Steve shakes his head and sits up. Bucky can't remember the last time he saw Steve look this vulnerable. “I'll tell you everything. It was wrong of me to keep it from you in the first place, I just thought—Never mind what I thought.”

Bucky interlaces their fingers, a show of support, but it might be the wrong thing, because it only brightens the anguish on Steve's face.

“Back before the war, before all this...” Steve says, gesturing to his body, “I didn't exactly have a lot of marketable skills.”

Bucky swallows. An icy chill overtakes him.

“I'd sell drawings, sometimes. Help out around shops, when someone had a bit of extra work.” Steve looks into Bucky's eyes, his gaze measured, distant. “None of that did much in the way of paying my share of the bills, the bad months. Wasn't much work to go around, if you remember,” Steve pauses and draws shaky breath, “I had to find another way to make rent, those times. One night, when I tried a new route home, I walked past this rundown hotel. A woman was standing out front. She told me that I looked like I could use a few extra bucks. I didn't say yes, then, but a few weeks later, after a long fever, I was desperate.”

This feels, to Bucky, like a nightmare he cannot wake up from. Steve isn't done, so he says nothing.

“How it worked, was...you had to roam the halls, waiting for someone to pick you. It was mostly women who worked there, but the hotel catered to all kinds.” Steve's voice has a bite to it, a bitter edge. “Short and skinny never helped me with the dames, but the men there never seemed to mind,” Steve says. He doesn't sound like Steve at all. Bucky reaches out to touch his shoulder, but Steve flinches away. “They liked me being weak.”

Bucky doesn't have words for the old wounds in Steve's eyes. He thinks about every bruise Steve ever came home with, and how many times Steve must have lied about their origins. The knowledge of his failure rises in Bucky's throat like bile. Protecting Steve had been the only thing he'd ever been good at—until killing. Now, there's just the other thing. “Steve,” he finally manages, “why didn't you tell me?”

“I know,” Steve says, voice raw. “It was selfish. You had a right to know before we got involved. I just thought...” He trails off.

Bucky wants desperately to touch him. “No, not now. Before. Then. During.”

Steve laughs, and it isn't the warm, rich sound that Bucky loves. “And what would you have done? Broken your back taking extra shifts? Worked nights? You worked so much already.” There's an edge to his voice, but also affection. “Would you have run errands for the mob? Or whored yourself out in my place?”

Bucky looks down, and for a while, says nothing. “Yes,” he says, refusing to meet Steve's eyes. “Any of it. All of it—and more. Any awful thing you could think of, to keep you from being hurt. I'd have done anything to keep you from having to live through that.”

“That's why I kept it from you. To keep you safe,” Steve says. “That, and—”

He cuts the sentence short. He's been doing that a lot, this conversation, and Bucky comes to a sick realization. “Steve, why didn't you want to tell me? Now, then—really.”

Steve avoids his gaze. Bucky reaches out to touch the side of his face with the hand that isn't holding Steve's—the metal one—just the ghost of contact. Steve kisses the palm. Bucky can only feel pressure there, but the warmth of the gesture pierces him to the core.

He looks at Steve, and the amount of love he feels for this man, every damn time, it's terrifying and it overwhelms him. Bucky's almost ready to just tell him, 'to hell with it, keep your secrets—you've told me enough,' to do the thing that will stop him hurting now, and rot them in the long term.

But then Steve's eyes meet his, full of familiar, steely resolve. “I figured you wouldn't wanna go to bed with a whore,” Steve says, matter-of-fact as can be. The resolve crumbles into an age-old ache and insecurity that Bucky can't stand to see on Steve's face.

Shoving aside the actual, physical pain that Steve's words cause, Bucky leans in to kiss him, soft, on the lips. “That makes you stupider than even I ever took you for. Never been one to begrudge a fella doing what he has to. Wouldn't have much of a leg to stand on, in that regard, these days.” Bucky curls his mouth into a cynical smile. “Besides, you coulda fucked everyone in our neighborhood, and then my whole platoon, and it wouldn't make me want you in this bed any less.”

Steve is smiling now, if not yet with his eyes. “Just the platoon?”

“The company, the regiment, the whole damn European theater—I'd be happy for you, too, long as you were having fun,” Bucky says. “The only thing that bothers me is that it sounds like you didn't—have fun, that is.”

“No,” Steve says, “only ever had fun with you.”

Bucky is terrified for a moment, before he realizes that he took care of Steve for a lifetime, most of a century ago. He can't fix this, cannot undo whatever Steve has lived, cannot wipe away his own glaring failure, not anymore than Steve can wipe away the awful things that he has done, but he can do one thing; he can take care of Steve in this, now.

Bucky nuzzles in to kiss Steve's jaw. “There's a lot more fun we're gonna have, pal.”

Steve lets go of Bucky's hand to run his hands up the bare skin of Bucky's sides, and Bucky shivers, suddenly remembering that they're both naked. “What are you doing, Buck?” Steve asks. He sounds breathless, and just a bit pleased.

“Puttin' my money where my mouth is,” Bucky says. He bites at Steve's earlobe, and then kisses his neck. He can feel Steve warming up beneath his touch, moving from the ugly past into the shared hope of their present.

“You got somethin' to prove, soldier?” Steve's tracing faint patterns into the skin of Bucky's back with the tips of his fingers, and it's cheating, because he knows that kind of light, teasing touch, drives Bucky insane.

Bucky arches against Steve's hands. He hears himself make a sound that is very pleased, but not at all dignified. For a time, he cannot respond. It takes focussing on the way Steve looked, expecting to be rejected, to get Bucky back on track. “Quite a few things, actually.” He straddles Steve's hips, catches Steve's hands, and guides them down to his ass. “And I know just how to prove 'em.”

Bucky bends to kiss Steve on the lips, and when he pulls away, Steve looks up at him, eyes dark, all vulnerability and lust and affection. Bucky's mouth feels dry, but it is Steve who swallows. “And how, exactly, do you plan on doing that, Sergeant?”

“Well,” Bucky says. It's hard not to be distracted by the sight of Steve beneath him—taut abs, bare, muscled chest, heroic jaw, all there to drink up, to touch, and to taste. “I'm gonna start by showing you how good it can be.” Steve's eyes start to go frightened, and Bucky quickly adds, “for me. How much I like it. How much I want it—by which I mean your dick inside of me, just so we're clear.”

He waggles an eyebrow, and tries not to look too pleased when Steve cracks a smile.

“And hopefully,” Bucky says, voice low. He skims a blunt nail over one of Steve's nipples. “Somewhere along the way, you're gonna figure out how bad I want you, no matter what.” He bends to press a kiss over the place he knows Steve's heart to be. “Though if this time doesn't get the point across, there's gonna be a lot of repeat performances, and one of them is gonna get it through your thick skull.”

Steve's got that familiar furrow in his brow.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “None of that. Ain't gonna hurt me. At least...not in any way I won't like.” He kisses Steve, licking into his mouth, and then kisses Steve's jaw, and bites at his ear. Bucky reaches between their bodies to stroke Steve's once-again-hardening cock, ignoring his own growing need. As much as he's going to enjoy this, it's not about him—it's about Steve.

Steve, who lets out a little gasp—pleased, Bucky knows the sound by now—and looks up at him with burning eyes. “You're sure,” he says, “because I'm—well, you've seen me.”

Bucky laughs and kisses him again. “Steve, _pal_ ,” Bucky says, pulling away, “I've done a whole lot more than seen you, and trust me when I say I know exactly what your dick's like. Size ain't a bad thing.” Steve's dick...Bucky's mouth practically waters thinking about it, so he slides down Steve's body to suck him down.

Steve makes _sounds_ , shocked and pleased and utterly obscene. Bucky hums, content; this—being able to undo Steve with his mouth, to take every inch of him, is a testament to Bucky's skills, and he's always been the kind of man who's proud to do good work. Bucky wrings a few more moans from Steve, and then pulls back a bit work the head with his tongue. Steve's hand, which has been gentle in his hair, stutters and pulls, like he can't help himself.

The sharp pain makes Bucky groan, and Steve apologizes immediately. Bucky pulls off to say, “That ain't the bad kind of sound, punk,” and then redoubles his efforts. He's rock hard even though no one's laid a hand on his cock.

“Bucky,” Steve gasps, after a while, releasing Bucky's hair to touch the side of his face, “if you want 'my dick inside of you,' you're gonna have to stop that. Soon.”

Bucky pulls off and gives Steve his lewdest grin. “You've got a recovery period of like two minutes, and you're the most stubborn bastard I know—”

“Second most stubborn,” Steve says, cutting in, eyes shining with mirth. Bucky's tempted to go back to sucking his dick out of spite. “I figured we'd be okay either way,” he says, instead.

Steve laughs, and hauls Bucky up to kiss him on the mouth. Steve always does that, always makes a point of kissing Bucky after Bucky's had Steve's dick in his mouth, and Bucky's heart twists a bit at this little reminder that he's got the world's best man in his bed. They make out for a while, frantic and intense, hands everywhere. Bucky can feel how hard Steve is pressed against him.

Bucky nuzzles Steve's neck. “Time to move on to the main event, pal.” He drapes himself over Steve's lap, reaching for where he thinks he tossed the lube when their night turned from sex to conversation, and wiggles his hips just to make sure Steve looks at his ass. Steve laughs (warm, rich, just the way that Bucky loves), and does one better, grabbing a handful and then letting his hand rest there while Bucky hunts for the lube. He's starting to panic and consider the potential ill effects of using lotion before he finds it.

Bucky returns to his position straddling Steve's lap, and holds the lube up to the heavens in gratitude. “Steve,” he says, “Steve, I think I know what fear is now. We're making a nice, organized sex drawer, first thing in the morning. With lots of backup lube. You're Captain America. _You're supposed to be prepared_.”

“You're the one who lost it in the first place,” Steve says, shaking with laughter. He runs his hands up and down Bucky's torso.

They're both laughing and they're both rock hard, and this, this is why everyone should fuck their best friend (falling in love helps, too). Bucky considers which hand he should use to get himself ready – the metal one might feel weird, but might also be hot for Steve to watch. But then again, their current position isn't the best for putting on a show, he can save that for another time. He slicks up two flesh and blood fingers, looks Steve dead in the eye, and then reaches around to push them inside himself.

Bucky lets out a groan, because he's always a little rough when he does this to himself, and it hurts just right.

Steve watches him, expression a unique mixture of arousal and faux-hurt feelings. “Hey, how come I don't get to be the one who does that?”

“It'll be a weird angle for you, in this position,” Bucky says; his voice comes out all low and husky, like he's trying for sexy, even though the words are anything but. He angles his wrist, searching, and lets out a little gasp when he hits the right spot.

“I'm Captain America,” Steve says, smirking, “I can handle a wrist cramp.”

Bucky takes his fingers out, trying not to moan at the loss of stimulation, and wipes them on the sheets. “Yes sir, Captain America, sir,” he says with a salute and a mostly-straight face. He takes Steve's hand and dispenses a liberal quantity of lube before guiding it onto his own ass. “Two fingers at once. I can take it.”

“My hands are bigger than yours,” Steve says, grinning and teasing Bucky's hole with one slick finger.

Bucky tries very, very hard not to whine, with limited success. “What've you got to be so smug about?” he manages to say, with some degree of the surly tone he was aiming for, except Steve keeps touching him, fingers so close to where Bucky _needs_ them, but still so far, too far. “Steve,” Bucky says, “Steve, fucking do it already.”

Steve kisses him, but continues the torment. “Ask _nice_ , Bucky.”

“Finger me, you bastard,” Bucky says, panting, “ _please_.”

“Close enough,” Steve says, threading his other hand in Bucky's hair. He pushes a finger in, seeking the right angle.

Bucky gasps. He's seeing stars, but he wants more. “Two, I said, two.”

“Bossy,” Steve says, pulling him down for another kiss.

“You like it.” Bucky gropes at Steve dick—rock hard—and Steve groans into his mouth.

Steve adds another finger, pumping them in and out, slow—too slow, but so _good_. “Such a jerk,” Steve says, and all Bucky can do in response is moan.

Steve scissors his fingers, and Bucky curses. “ _More_ , just—fuck, more, or faster. Give me something.” His whole world is narrowed to a point, and Steve is it. “Gonna go insane.”

Steve picks up the pace and bites Bucky's earlobe, and then sucks on it. “To tell the truth, Buck, doing this, seeing you like this...'s driving me crazy, too.”

“Yeah?” Bucky says, pushing back against Steve's fingers—and he can't help the smile. “You like this? Like getting me ready for your cock? ”

Steve swallows, and finally, _finally_ gives Bucky another finger. The pressure and pleasure make it hard to remember to breathe. Bucky's lucky it's a reflex. “You have no fucking clue how hot you are, how good the sounds you make are.”

“Oh, you have no idea what kind of sounds I make. Won't know 'til you fuck me,” Bucky says.

Steve kisses his neck. “Oh yeah? Well, what am I doing right now?”

“With your _dick_ ,” Bucky says, words catching on a moan. “Gonna have you fuck me hard 'til I scream.”

“Just 'til? So I've gotta stop if you scream.”

“You won't fucking _dare_.”

“You ready, Buck?”

“ _Actual_ years ago. Hurry up.”

Steve laughs against his skin.

“On second thought,” Bucky says, and then he pushes Steve back on the bed. “Hold on to your seat, Captain.”

“Would rather hold on to this,” Steve says, putting one hand on Bucky's hip and reaching for his dick with the other.

Bucky swats his hand away. “Stop distracting me.” He lines them up. Steve's cock is hard and silky in his hand, and he can't wait another moment. “'Sides, wanna come just from... this.” He sinks down onto Steve's hard cock with a groan. Steve's got super soldier proportions everywhere, so it aches, in the best way possible, and it's so, so good. Steve's hot inside of him, and Bucky feels kind of like his skin is on fire, brain fogged up with lust.

Steve curses, and Bucky grins, pleased at the stream of profanity, flushed with fervor and affection. He strokes Steve's chest. Steve smiles back—the small, sweet, besotted smile that Bucky's only ever seen directed at himself—and reaches up to touch Bucky's cheek. “You okay?”

“Better than,” Bucky steadies himself with the hand on Steve's chest and starts to move. “Christ, you feel good.”

“You feel better.”

Bucky just shakes his head, and focuses his attentions on riding Steve, slow and steady to torture them both. Steve holds on to his hips, and Bucky can tell he's trying not to grip too hard, but the pressure from his fingers, the marks of which Bucky is sure to bear for days, says that Steve's iron will is failing him. That, coupled with the blissed-out look on Steve's face and the moans spilling from his lips, feels almost as good as Steve's cock inside him.

For a while, they're both quiet, and it's just obscene moans, and the slick sound of Steve's cock moving in and out of him, but Bucky's got ideas. He stops, and looks down at Steve, mouth quirked. “You gonna help out, or do I gotta do all the work around here? 'Cause I'm fine either way, but I think you might kind of like the other thing...”

“So what you're saying, soldier,” Steve's eyes are bright, pupils blown; he slides a hand up and down Bucky's back, and then down his ass, to feel where Bucky's body connects to his. He touches the tight ring of muscle, and Bucky has to bite back a whimper. “Is that you'd like me to take point on this mission.”

“You're the cheesiest fucking person in the world,” Bucky starts to say, but then Steve rolls his hips, and Bucky hears himself make a sound that would probably be embarrassing if he weren't totally, utterly beyond caring. They've been at this awhile, but the stretch of Steve inside of him still burns, sweet and hot and perfect.

“'S that okay?” Steve asks.

Bucky laughs, just a little hysterical. “No, you know me. I just make those kinds of noises when we're hanging ou—ah—ah.” He's cut off when Steve thrusts up again.

“What's that, Buck?” Steve says, grinning, and just a little bit breathless. “Didn't quite catch that.” He's got a steady rhythm now.

Bucky just swears. “You look like a shark when you smile like that,” he finally manages, a few choked moans later.

Steve just laughs and rolls them over, effortless, so that he's on top. Bucky's not sure exactly how it happens, but before he knows it, his legs are up on Steve's shoulders, and Steve, holding himself up on his forearms, as if Bucky can't take the weight, is kissing him and fucking him at the same time, passionate and enthusiastic on both fronts. “Legs on your shoulders, really?” Bucky says, fisting his hands in the sheets before he thinks better of it and moves them to Steve's back. Steve's fucking him deeper than before, and this position was kind of the best idea ever.

“You're pretty bendy for an old man,” Steve says, “gotta enjoy that while it lasts.” He picks up the pace.

“Ngh,” Bucky says, blunt nails scratching into Steve's skin. He doesn't have much purchase when they're like this, but he pushes up against Steve as best as he can anyway, desperate, trying for more. “Harder. Yes—like that, _jesus_.”

“You like that?”

Bucky nods, and a few whimpers and cries escape his lips before he manages words. “You could fuck me in half like this.”

“Want me to try?”

“Yes—fuck—fuck yes.”

Steve makes his best effort at doing just that, fucking him, rhythmic and hard, and Bucky is lost. Everything is pleasure, and heat, and Steve in him and above him. He might be making sounds, but he can't know. The next thing he's aware of is Steve _slowing down_ to fuck him slow and deep—thorough, careful, and frustrating. It's so good, but it's also _maddening_. Bucky claws at his back. “Harder, you bastard,” he hisses.

Steve kisses him on the mouth with a breathless-looking smile. “You said to fuck you hard 'til you screamed. You were definitely screaming. My name, the lord’s name...all sorts of good stuff.”

“Wipe that smug grin off your face and fuck me for real,” Bucky says, proud that it comes out only half-garbled with moans.

“You're right,” Steve says, with something that means to be a put-upon sigh, but comes out as a gasp of pleasure. Bucky would feel triumphant if he weren't about to go insane. “The super hot, helpless noises of ecstasy were definitely better.”

“They weren't helpless—” Bucky starts, but then Steve goes back to fucking him in true super soldier fashion, and the words die on his lips. Okay, yeah, 'helpless noises of ecstasy,' are probably right, but Steve, although not quite as vocal in his pleasure as Bucky, isn't doing much better on that front. He's all panting and delicious, delirious groans, kissing words of praise into Bucky's skin as he comes apart, as they both come apart.

“Steve, I'm gonna—” Bucky says, because he's close, so close, heat pooling in his stomach, the pressure that's been building up on the verge of boiling over.

Steve kisses his neck. “'M close, too,” and then he captures Bucky's mouth with his own—only, he bites Bucky's lower lip before kissing him, and that sends Bucky over the edge. The orgasm crashes over him, white-hot and blinding—he comes in spurts all over both their chests. Steve fucks him through it, kissing him to swallow his cries. Bucky's shaking with the aftershocks when Steve follows suit, hiding his face in the crook of Bucky's neck in a failed attempt to muffle his own moans. Bucky can feel Steve's cock throb inside of him as Steve comes, and it's the delirious sort of hot. Steve slumps on top of him when he's done, nosing against Bucky's shoulder.

They stay like that a while, plastered together, the warm weight of Steve draped all over him. Bucky feels the sort of content that originates somewhere deep in his bones. Steve kisses his neck, and Bucky reaches up with a shaky hand to stroke Steve's hair. Steve's quiet, and Bucky's suddenly afraid. He'd been the one pushing for this—what if Steve didn't—.

“You okay?” Steve asks, voice thick with affection.

The relief blossoms from a bright place in his chest. Bucky nods. “Better than. Way better than. You?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, “'m great.” He shifts around to pull out—Bucky groans at the loss of contact—and then even has the decency to shove Bucky's legs down onto the bed so that he doesn't have to decide between the effort of moving them and the indignity of leaving them in the air.

Steve gets up, and Bucky paws at the empty space he had, just a moment ago, occupied, indignant. “You get back here,” Bucky says. “You're staying in this bed with me.”

Steve laughs, soft, low, and fond. “Relax, I'm just gonna get a washcloth. Clean us up.”

“You get thirty seconds,” Bucky says. He understands Steve's reasoning, but that does not make him any less likely to pout about it.

Steve's back in what Bucky's pretty sure is the prescribed timeframe, warm, damp washcloth in hand. He sits on the bed and looks down at Bucky with such feeling that it makes something catch in Bucky's throat. Steve cleans him up first, running the washcloth over his chest and between his legs, before taking care of himself.

“Get down here, you sap,” Bucky says. Steve tosses the soiled washcloth on the floor and complies, wrapping himself around Bucky like some kind of amorous snake. He's a human furnace—moreso, even, than usual—but that's okay, because Bucky likes for him to chase away the cold. “So, you convinced yet? Or is this gonna require a repeat performance.”

Steve kisses down from his temple to his neck, lingering a while to nip lightly at his jaw. “Definitely gonna need a repeat performance. Lots of repeat performances. You know me, I don't learn lessons easy.”

Bucky shakes his head and laughs. “Didn't mean right now, pal.”

“You sure?” Steve makes some kind of half-assed attempt at waggling his eyebrows. Bucky wants to kiss the stupid grin off his face, and so he does. “'Cause I could go again,” Steve says, once they break apart. The kiss was less than effective at erasing the smug look. “And you make such a cute face when you come.”

“You take that back,” Bucky says, his best attempt at mock indignation. “My o-face—which you've seen tons of times before this, by the way—is super manly.”

Steve laughs, and kisses his shoulder. “You know,” there's a fake innocence to his tone that Bucky associates with trouble, “I've never tested how many times I could get off without stopping.”

Trouble, indeed. “Never? Not even once?”

“I don't suppose that's something you'd be interested in trying out...fucking over and over until I can't get it up again, or until you're so overstimulated and wrecked that you have to cry uncle.”

Bucky's cock twitches with renewed interest, and the smug look on Steve's face is back, times about ten. Bucky looks him dead in the eye, and says, “We could make it a competition, see who’s wrecked first,” voice low and serious.

Steve doesn't look so smug anymore.

“Ain't doin' it now, though,” Bucky says, “so don't get too excited.” He shifts around to pillow his head on Steve's chest, and Steve laughs and adjusts, wrapping his arms around Bucky, running his hands all over Bucky's skin and all over the metal of Bucky's left arm.

Steve seems a genuine and complete sort of content, the same kind that Bucky feels. Satiated, thoroughly well-fucked, and exhausted, Bucky can feel himself spiraling somewhere towards sleep. His eyes flutter, threatening to close, and Steve kisses the top of his head. “Go to sleep, Buck,”

Bucky kisses the bit of warm skin closest to his mouth, and murmurs into Steve's chest, “'M gonna. You believe me now, though, Steve? Believe how bad I want you?”

“Yeah, Bucky, I believe you.” Steve says, voice tinged with something grateful and something that's the old kind of sad, but also with a tentative joy that Bucky knows he can coax into something brighter.

“You're stupid,” Bucky says, “and I'm stupid in love with you. And I demand a goodnight kiss.”

Steve rolls his eyes, and then tips Bucky's face up and ducks his head to kiss him on the lips, sweet and chaste like he hadn't just fucked Bucky's brains out. “Love you, Buck. Even though you're clearly the stupid one.”

There's nothing tentative about his happiness now, and Bucky cuddles closer with a smile on his face that must be dizzy, because that’s how he feels.

“So now I'm your pillow?”

Bucky nods, and closes his eyes. “Remember, pillows don't mouth off.” He is a breathless and terrifying sort of happy. Bucky knows, logically speaking, that sex, no matter how awesome and mind-blowing, can't fix either of their problems; he's a grown man, after all, and one to whom life has not left much in the way of naivete—but none of that stops him from thinking that they both might sleep through the night this time around.

**Author's Note:**

> Say hello [on Tumblr](http://wintergaydar.tumblr.com/)!


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